


What Night May Yield

by Flowyen



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: F/M, GN Reader, LITERALLY, M/M, Nightmares And Comfort, Other, Set after early access, Unnamed Reader, chapter one is setup, chapter two gets more exciting, duh - Freeform, one bed trope avoided but only barely, potential Astarion backstory spoilers, reader has no pronouns, some feelings might be involved whoops, speculation on what might happen, there's an inn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28709286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowyen/pseuds/Flowyen
Summary: “All I’m saying,” Astarion shrugs to your party huddled in the woods surrounding a quaint little village just outside Baldur’s Gate, “is that it couldn’t hurt to spend a night in an actual bed before we go face certain death and all that.”He glances to you, and you sense something deeper in those red eyes, something that smirks and curled words cannot quite hide, not from you. Something that no one else is going to notice in their flippant dismissals of him.Unease.“We have more than enough money pooled together to burn on a few rooms,” you say, shifting your weight and urging the rest of the group to consider such a luxury. “We weren't going to go past the city gates tonight anyway. What’s the harm?”
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s), Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Reader, Astarion/Female Charname (Baldur's Gate)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 225





	1. Settled Inn

“I assure you it was not my intention to subject you to _sharing_ when I mentioned the whole idea.”

The sneer in Astarion’s voice is apparent as the two of you step into the inn room with two twin beds separated by a long nightstand. The room is relatively nice for such a random, stumbled upon inn, and likely similar to what your other companions are enjoying in their own little pair ups - evidently there had been a limited availability upon Gale’s check in. The beds are against the wall to your left on entry, and there’s a space on the back wall to their right which is a sort of extruding, tower-like structure lined with tall windows decorated by crossing panes and little arches at the top. 

You merely shrug, dumping your pack at the foot of the bed closer to the windows and walking over to peer out, the setting sun casting everything in a sort of warm, grayish light that suggests imminent rainfall. 

Astarion joins you a moment later, staring over your shoulder suspiciously. “Oh, it’s a view of the _stables_ ,” he says. “How _charming_.”

“There are plenty of trees to look at instead,” you chide. “And a whole sky. Not that it matters much anyway if we’re going to just be sleeping here.”

“I should have expected you to find such simple pleasures so suitable,” he scoffs. “Trees, horses, and sky. What more could one possibly want? Some goats to snuggle up to?”

You turn, looking at him in a way which you know makes him uncomfortable. 

“ _What?_ ”

The tadpole wriggles behind your eye, but you do not tax that link. Not when a conversation should do just as well and end in less hostility. 

“You’re the one who wanted to spend the night at an inn,” you say, crossing your arms. “Why so bitter about the view?”

He flicks a bit of dust off one of two armchairs in the windowed alcove, frowning. “What do you care? Shouldn’t you be running off to get dinner or something anyway?”

You blink, bewildered as to where the sudden coldness has come from. He’s tenser than usual, his normally charming, flippant mannerisms replaced by something stiffer. Astarion won’t talk to you at the moment, not about whatever seems to be clearly bothering him. Tired as you presently are, you hardly feel like prying him open, especially when you can’t just set up your own bedroll a little farther away when you inevitably piss him off in your attempts.

“Alright, fine then,” you say, allowing him to deflect your little interrogation. “You aren’t coming down though?”

“No, I’d rather not draw any attention to myself this close to my old master. Who knows what other Gur he’s sent for me. I’ve no doubt there’s a decent ransom on my head, and a face like mine is bound to be recognized in these parts.” Astarion says it so offhandedly that you almost believe him. “Besides, you know my taste is a little more _refined_ than whatever the tavern downstairs has to offer.”

His red gaze darts to your throat, and you can’t help but roll your eyes. “Easy,” you chide, reaching for your pouch of coins and a small dagger to conceal in your boot should things turn south on your little scavenge for a suitable dinner.

“Well I can’t very well go out and hunt at the moment, can I?” he says glibly. “It’s either you or nothing, and you hardly want me fighting on an empty stomach.”

“I’ll think about it.” You give a curt wave over your shoulder without so much as glancing at him, working the sticky door open and slipping out into the corridor. You can almost hear Astarion’s pout at having been dismissed. 

You don’t know why, but it gives you a small sense of satisfaction to just turn around and walk away from him and whatever issues he’s refusing to work through. Gods know you’ll be in for your fair share of all that later on tonight, so you do not let yourself dwell on the matter as your boots clunk down the creaky, narrow stairs. Soon enough, you can smell roasting meat and freshly poured ale. 

“I don’t know if letting those two alone for a whole night is the best idea, I admit,” a familiar voice says to your left as you step into the tavern. “I half expect to find Astarion licking his fingers over a bloodless corpse.”

Gale, shoved in a corner booth with none other than Wyll, the both of them already served. Your other companions are nowhere to be seen, and you get the sense that they perhaps are laying low like Astarion, at least until the diner crowd dies down a bit. 

“Not like any of us were gonna share with him,” Wyll responds into his tankard. “If it’d been me, I’d sleep outside.”

As if on cue, a bit of rain starts to prattle against the windows, and you get a lovely image of Wyll storming off knee deep in mud to get away from Astarion. You’d pick staying in with the vampire spawn over a wet romp in the woods any day, though you might be persuaded into a wet romp in the woods _with_ said vampire spawn. Not that he’d be particularly keen on getting his clothes dirty. Not for your sake, at least. 

“If you do wake to find me as a bloodless corpse,” you say, startling them with your sudden presence as you slide into their booth unceremoniously. “Make Astarion do that ‘speak with the dead spell’ so I can give him a hard time about it, will you?”

Wyll snorts. “I’d love to see that.”

“Glad to see you don’t share our misgivings,” Gale says testily as a barmaid comes over and asks what you’d like to eat. “If he tries anything though, you know we’re on your side.”

“Mhm,” you nod, feigning appreciation. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’d better be,” Wyll says, finishing his mug and scooting out of the booth with a stretch. “We need all of us for what’s about to come. I can hardly be expected to carry all our dead weight, now can I?”

He winks at you, a friendly gesture, and Gale looks as if he wants to come up with some clever retort to defend his own usefulness as they both rise from the table. You have no doubt that he says something witty and a little self-absorbed to Wyll as the two leave you to your dinner, but you don’t pay much attention. You trace the grooves of the old oak table with your fingernail, your mind drifting to a certain someone who’s silvertongue is matched by the hue of his hair. You don’t really fear Astarion, not anymore. Not after that first night when you woke up with his fangs poised over your throat. At the very least, you certainly aren't worried about him pouncing on you in the night. 

It is, after all, hard to stay mad at someone so maddeningly charming, even if all of it is just a rouse, a show. If he turned around one day and confessed an undying hatred for you, you honestly wouldn’t be all that surprised either. Hurt, perhaps, but if anyone could mask such animosity behind a careful smile and a seductive insinuation, it would be him. 

After all, he’s had… what, two hundred years to pick up the art form?

The barmaid returns with your food and an earthenware mug of whatever alcohol you’d asked for and already forgotten about.

“All alone tonight, are we?” she asks as she sets the things down. 

“You could say that,” you sigh. You don’t know what the next few days will bring, if Astarion will switch allegiances on you and kill Cazador only to take his place. Perhaps you won’t succeed in killing him at all - perhaps you fail and have to watch Cazador reclaim his old spawn - a thought which leaves an admittedly bitter taste in your mouth which you wash down with your drink. Maybe you'll simply die in the squabble and won’t have to deal with either outcome. Or the tadpoles get to work before you manage to do anything at all and everyone wakes up tomorrow morning as mind flayers.

Outside, a bit of low thunder rolls over the hills.

Such lovely thoughts to have alone at dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so I'm flinging myself into this fandom while the game is still very new. I heard one (1) line of dialogue from this man about a month ago and well... what can I say, I melt for good voice acting.
> 
> The next chapter is far longer and has much more Astarion in it <3 Do let me know if you like the tone / premise or have suggestions for future fics!


	2. Restless

Some hours later, once the sun is truly set and the crickets have started their nightly symphony, you and a bottle of wine make it back to your room somewhat sluggishly. You were hoping that Astarion would have calmed down a bit by the time you return, but as soon as you shoulder open the door, you know that you are hardly so lucky.

Astarion sits on one of the alcove armchairs, his feet high up on the windowsill and crossed at the ankles. The book of necromancy is held loosely in his long fingers, and he flips through the pages languidly, even as he tilts his head to look over his shoulder at you. 

“You’ve been busy, I expect,” he says, returning to the book after eyeing the wine. “Are we celebrating something?”

You slosh the contents absently. “No, just thought it would be nice to have. You’re welcome to it, but it isn’t very good.”

“Is this your way of turning me down?”

You blink, a bit of color running inadvertently to your cheeks. “No.”

“Because if it is, I wish you’d just say so instead of stringing me on all night. It’s not like I’m going to force it out of you.”

“Well, that’s comforting.”

“I’ve said before how I’m a consummate lover,” Astarion sighs, flipping another page. You get the sense he isn’t even looking at the book, that it’s nothing more than a prop in a posturing display. “That includes knowing when to take a hint that I’m not wanted.”

“I never said _that_ ,” you murmur, too quietly for him to hear.

He shifts a little on the seat.

You _thunk_ the bottle of wine down on the bedside table and start to strip out of your outer clothes, kicking your boots off roughly and tossing everything unceremoniously into a pile at the foot of your bed. It creaks as you tumble backwards onto it, your mind tired and your stomach full of pub food you aren’t quite sure it agrees with. The sheets are a bit rougher than you’d personally appreciate, and they make a fairly audible sound when you shift beneath them. You can almost sense the indignation radiating from Astarion as he pointedly refuses to so much as glance in your direction, evidently intent on making you feel snubbed in return for your unwillingness to put up with whatever mood sharing a room with you seems to have put him in. Perhaps you should try to reach out and bridge the divide separating you. That would be the wise thing, the kind thing even. The action which Gale might call “being the bigger person” were your companion anyone other than Astarion.

You, however, are not in the mood to be anything aside from legitimately tired and perhaps just a little bit petty yourself, and so without even bidding him goodnight, you roll over on your creaky mattress and arrange yourself amongst your starched sheets.

A moment or two later, with your eyes shut and your chest careful to rise and fall quite slowly, you hear Astarion stirring on the armchair. He scoffs incredulously before you hear the rustle of paper once again, the mental image of him flicking through the pages to keep his mind off you threatening to place a wicked smile on your lips and spoil your ruse of already being fast asleep. 

You wonder if he’ll call you out on it, beg you in that ever so graceful manner of his to let him have just a _taste_ of you, a refresher. A little boost of energy. To be fair, if he were so direct about things, and if he said ‘please’ as you so delight in him doing, you likely would let him drink from you. You don’t particularly mind the sensation after the initial puncture of fangs, and you do know how jumpy Astarion gets when he hasn’t fed for awhile. If he’s really desperate, he might corner some poor maid. Regardless of how clear your own moral compass is, that hardly seems fair if it is something you can prevent. 

Somewhere in the back of your thoughts, you tell yourself to wake up and bare your neck to him. Solve whatever tension has crept up between you with something more physical, some kind of wanton distraction with his hand snaking up your thigh as his lips press to your neck. You do mean to get up once the image and the ghost of such a sensation crosses your mind, but by that point you are already in that twilight before tumbling off into a real sleep where all sensical thoughts cease, and before you can so much as murmur his name, you are lost to its dark, calming abyss. 

...

You do not dream of your ideal lover that night, no hands press into your skin, nor are you caressed by tender promises of more power should you want to claim it. As unsettling as such dreams can be, it would be far better than what you _do_ experience. 

It starts out fine enough - you’re walking dreamily down some stone street, cool night air kissing the back of your neck as you glide through fog, some sense of urgency, some task rolling in the mist. You find a person - a vague sort of inclination of one, as dreams so often provide. You barely see their face, or their body. There’s so much fog... they could be anyone, really. Perhaps they are - everyone and no one all at once. 

The dream shifts, this ambiguous person is taken from you, you’re pushed to the floor. Something wriggles in your mouth, some vermin of fur and bone and claws and-

You feel like vomiting - you cannot get the little bones from your mouth, you’ll choke on them, you’ll die, surely. 

And then there’s something holding your arms down, some weight on your thighs as your ribs cut into the floor beneath you, the lash of a whip controlled and tearing down your exposed back. Wait, no, not a whip - claws, perhaps? Slicing and spilling blood and-

A garbled, half awake cry which is not your own pierces through the night, and your eyes shoot open. Your breath comes in ragged, panting gasps that cannot possibly satisfy your pounding heart quickly enough. Your head is buried in the pillow, and on sloppy, half-asleep arms you push yourself up, kicking away at your sheets which feel too tight, too constricting. Too like that pressure on your hips, pinning you down. Your tongue searches your mouth for a burrowed creature, your hands claw at your back half expecting to meet blood. But both inspections are fruitless, and you sag downwards, still breathing shallowly. 

In all your own blind panic, you are vaguely aware of another presence in the room, hearing him snatch the wine bottle from the bedside table and stalk off to the windows. Frigid night air hits you in a gust suddenly, and while you flinch at first, remembering the dream, you soon relish the sensation against your heated skin now bathed in a cold sweat. 

Astarion stands in the alcove, his left arm tense and pushing against the window-ledge, his right fist white-knuckled around the wine bottle’s slender neck. You watch the muscles in his back - his heavily scarred back - shift in the pale moonlight peaking through storm clouds as he brings the bottle greedily to his lips, tilting his head back and swallowing at least half of it in one go. 

Your mind is sludge, but painfully slowly, you manage to connect what little you know of Astarion’s past with Cazador to whatever amalgamation of a dream you had, and you wonder if he’d somehow unintentionally projected his own onto you - whatever confused mix of half remembered memories and worry for what the next day might bring. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time something strange has happened in your sleep, though whether or not this is the work of the tadpoles you haven’t the faintest idea. 

Shakily, you get up, kicking the rest of the covers away from your legs. Your whole body seems to be drenched in sweat, and when you make your way over to Astarion, you find him to be in a similar state. His pale skin and silver hair practically glow, and you can’t help but find him quite beautiful in some far off part of your brain which never really knows when to shut up. 

“Don’t hog all the wine,” you rasp, reaching for the bottle absently. Astarion pulls away from you as if he expects you to strike him. You both pause for a moment, and begrudgingly he shoves the bottle your way with a jerking, rough motion so distant from his usual fluttery gestures. 

That observation made, you down a few gulps yourself, the burn of it surprisingly soothing in your throat and chest, guiding you back to the present. 

Astarion grabs it back once the bottle has left your lips and finishes the contents off, letting it drop to the ground and roll out of the little alcove. The glass bottle initially seemed black upon first inspection, but the moonlight passing through it from the cracked open window projects a little green glimmer across the floor. 

“Is that what it felt like to get your scars?” you mutter, feeling absolutely inept at this sort of thing. 

“Aren’t you subtle tonight.”

“Is it?”

“What, did you pry into my head? Use your little tadpole and poke around while I thrashed in the sheets?”

His voice has taken on that deeper, fuller sound, the chipper snideness of it turned to something far more feral and dark. Loathsome.

“Not intentionally. Did you force whatever nightmare you had down the bond?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

You turn so that your back hits the cold glass windows, crossing your arms and looking dead on at Astarion. “Talk to me,” you say firmly. 

He opens his mouth, intending to lob some biting retort at you no doubt, but you reach for his hand, persisting even when he tries to draw back into himself. He stares at you with bewilderment for a moment, but you place a kiss on where his pulse should be, right at the base of his wrist. It’s a plea, a bargain. 

“I just want to help distract you from it,” you insinuate. “If that’s something you want as well.”

He blinks, once, his eyes wider and more soft than you remember them being. He glances down, a shadow coming across his face once more, but he does not pull away from you. 

“That wasn’t a mind flayer dream, was it?” you ask, twining your hand in his. Astarion can’t seem to decide whether or not he wants you here, seeing him vulnerable like this. It’s not really like either of you have a choice seeing as you’re confined to the same room, and as if realizing this, he sighs, slumping down into the armchair and bringing one hand to rest dramatically on his temple while he gazes out into the night. You slip into the other chair, hooking your ankle around the leg and pulling it a little closer. 

“No, it wasn’t. I’m… I’m not really sure _what_ that all was.”

“Do you get dreams like that often?”

Astarion scoffs. “No, love. Dreaming isn’t for me.”

You stare at him firmly, and he looks at you through the corner of his vision. You clearly aren’t buying his lie, and he sighs, rolling his eyes and turning his head to face you more directly.

“Fine. _Yes_ , I do. But they’ve been more frequent recently.”

“Because we’re getting closer?”

He snarls. “I liked you better when you were ignoring me. Can’t you just leave me to suffer in peace?”

You say nothing, waiting for him to carry on of his own accord, to get all the bitterness from his mouth before you offer up your own. Astarion likes to talk, and you have no doubt that he’ll speak to fill the silence soon enough. It is merely a matter of patience on your part, a test of resolve. You do not intend to break first. 

Like a toddler shamed into admitting to his own guilt, Astarion scowls at you, but with a deep, obviously annoyed breath, he continues. “The second I step foot into Baldur’s Gate, Cazador will know. If he can’t sense my presence himself, he’ll have spies, other… spawns.” He winces. “I _have_ to kill him, and… well, anyone unfortunate enough to get in my way.”

“Spawns, people you knew.”

He nods. “People that I... well. Shared life experience and all that.” He gestures to his back, his fingers curling dramatically and casting shadows across the well-formed planes of his face. “But that’s a trivial matter - a necessary fact should I want to survive. However, if I fail, if Cazador lives…” he shudders, his jaw clenching as he shakes his head in disgust. “Whatever you saw just now - that is nothing compared to what is to become of me should Cazador win. Rats for dinner and poems etched into my flesh will seem like luxuries.”

For a while, you simply study him, this pale elf who you can’t quite figure out entirely. You don’t need your tadpole to sense the fear radiating off him, the rawness to his voice and the air of defeat he so rarely shows now laid bare before you in a shocking display of, dare you say, trust. It is so uncharacteristic of him that you find yourself at a loss for words - not that you had all that many to begin with at the start of the night. 

“You aren’t alone in this, you know. You have the rest of us. You have… me.” Your words seem to fall short.

He laughs, a quick, short burst which feels quite forced. “ _Do I_? How long until you all give up, leave me to fend for myself? I’ve seen the way Gale looks at you, Wyll too.” He stares at you, the look cutting deep. “Hand me to Cazador and he’ll pay handsomely, no doubt. Hells, he might even spare your lives in return for mine.”

“You really think I’d let you drink from me night after night just to turn you in the second I get the chance?” you ask. “You have so little faith in me?”

“Don’t take it personally, _darling_ ,” he sneers, that flippant air coming through like a mask. “You’d hardly be the exception. I have quite the long line of trysts which ended in a fitting display of betrayal. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t at least _consider_ the possibilities of your own personal gain, weigh the value of my life in your hands like coins going towards cheap wine.”

You try not to be offended, you try not to let the acid he’s thrusting at you seep past your skin. He’s hiding it well of course, but he’s scared, worried. Paranoid, perhaps. You remind yourself of how he’s spent the last two hundred years of his life, how he’s entitled to being a little guarded. Gods knows you’re guarded when the occasion calls for it. 

Still, it does hurt that he evidently thinks so little of you, though you do know you cannot possibly expect to change this perception within a single night. You cannot undo literal centuries of beatings and torture, the likes of which you’ve only just barely glimpsed. It strikes you how much inherent resolve Astarion must have, to get his first taste of freedom and immediately march right back to his master prepared to fight for his right to cling to it. You push away the notion that he just wants power, focusing instead on how unwilling he is to break.  
Or, perhaps, you think as you watch his hands knit themselves in his hair to hide how much they’ve started to shake, he’s already been broken. Over and over again to the point of near madness if he’s not already dived off the threshold of it, reknitting the pieces of himself back together a little more roughly each time, a little more carelessly. 

No, that’s not quite it. Astarion is not a bloodthirsty, reckless creature. He’s intelligent, calculating. This whole conversation could be a ruse, the dream a lie, a series of memories pushed down the bond to gain your sympathy, your loyalty. Your blood. You don’t doubt his sincerity, but you wouldn’t exactly put it past him. 

The idea of his cool hand on your inner thigh banishes all concerns from your thoughts, however, and you shift forward, your knees knocking into his to get his attention. 

Astarion looks up at you, a thousand emotions on his face - anguish, suspicion. 

You tilt your head to the side, exposing your neck to both him and the watery moonlight. 

“You’ve said I can trust you,” you say, watching his eyes fixate on your neck. “And I do. You can trust me as well, you know.”

He swallows, tears himself away. “I thought… earlier, you didn’t-”

“I thought you were just being an ass,” you say. “If I’d known that _this_ is what’s been rattling around in your thick skull for the last few days I wouldn’t have denied you.”

Astarion’s brows knit together, his lip pulls up. “I don’t want _pity_.”

“For fuck’s sake, Astarion,” you huff. “I’m trying to give you a distraction. Here it is. Drink up - I have no doubt you won’t rest otherwise tonight and I’d rather you be at full strength tomorrow so that your vampire bastard doesn’t make off with my life either - or turn me into a spawn.”

“I’d kill you before he had the chance,” Astarion says, a little too automatically, like the thought has been in his head for awhile. You are admittedly somewhat taken aback - he’s _joked_ about killing you before should your own tadpole prove too much to handle, but he’s never sounded so dreadfully serious about it. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” He dips his chin at you as if some modicum of self awareness informed him how he sounds. “You don’t know what it’s like to be under his command. And as soon as Cazador would learn of our little…” he trails off, searching for the right word. “Whatever _this_ is, he’d exploit it. Use you to hurt me. Or try to, at least.”

“I thought you said he was intelligent.”

Astarion blinks. “What part of what I’ve just said paints him as anything but a ruthless, cunning-”

“Him using me against you,” you say, feeling cold. “It wouldn’t work. You wouldn’t care, you’d be far too caught up in your own misery to worry about mine.”

“What on earth do you think -”

“If anything,” you say, perhaps a little too influenced by the wine at this point, “he could use _you_ against _me_.”

Astarion’s brows drop, his eyes widen. For a moment, neither of you move, neither of you speak. You feel color rushing up to your cheeks and just pray that it is too dark for him to see. 

“What are you implying?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re… have you gotten _soft_ for me?”

“ _No_.”

“You, my _dear_ ,” he sneers. “Are a terrible, terrible liar.”

“What does it matter?” you bite, your face burning, your eyes actually stinging, to your own abject horror. You really wish you’d just gone back to bed. “So what if I have? It doesn’t change anything.”

“I’m flattered your expectations of my reciprocation are so low,” he says darkly. “Though I can’t help but wonder if whatever… _inclinations_ you foster towards me are simply a result of my skill in the bedroom.”

_Well that makes two of you._

“Shut up.”

“Or perhaps it’s my radiant personality.”

“ _Fuck off_.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” he smiles, nearly gleeful. “I admit, I knew you at least found me attractive - our little romp in the woods at the tiefling party assured me of that. But I never expected you to develop actual _feelings_ for me.”

You glare at him, a mixture of hatred and embarrassment and weeks of pining all coming to a head as he gloats infuriatingly. 

“Bite. Me.” you grit. 

Astarion’s eyes light up further still. “What? Don’t tease me - not when I’m already teasing you.”

With something that’s almost a growl, you spring out of your seat and into his lap, tossing your head aside and giving him perfect access to your neck. “I’ve given you your distraction. Just bite me already so we can both go back to bed and forget that any of this ever happened.”

“Oh, I don’t think I ever want to forget _this_ ,” he beams. 

You wrap your fingers in his hair and tug him forward, sharply, and he all but hisses in response. 

“Aren’t you going to say ‘please’?”

“Absolutely not,” you snort. 

He laughs, mostly to himself, and a moment later, you feel the sharp sting of his bite at your neck, throbbing heat at the site of the wound and a spreading chill everywhere else. Your fingers still rest in his hair, but they loosen their grip. His hands snake around your thighs, press into your back. He angles your head further to the side at one point, and it hits you how slowly he’s taking your blood. The first night he’d been positively ravenous, pulling away from you only at your insistence and with breathless gasps which betrayed a desire for more. He’s gotten better the few times since, but he’s never been _this_ slow, his hands wandering as if he’s savoring you. You might be suspicious if you weren’t so caught up in your own botched admission of feelings - the one you’d made yourself swear never to bring to light - least of all to him. You’re sure to be teased mercilessly on the subject, and as soon as your other party members find out, death will certainly seem like a kindness.

Eventually, though you cannot rightly say how long it all takes, you feel Astarion’s fangs pull out of your flesh, the puncture wounds ebbing lazily. He keeps his mouth over your skin until you stop bleeding, and you focus on not toppling over as a wave of lightheadedness floods your senses. You tell yourself that you’ll get up in a minute, as soon as your vision returns in full and your body stops feeling so distant, but when it all clears and you finally come to, you’re frozen in place. 

Astarion’s lips are still on your skin, trailing down insistent kisses down the column of your neck and resting innocently at your collarbone.  
“You know,” he says, working lazily back up, nearing your jaw. “I wouldn’t bother killing you out of mercy if I didn’t reciprocate your sentiments. At least a little bit, in my own way.”

Surely you’re hearing things. The confusion on your face must be truly comical, for upon seeing it, Astarion pauses his kisses and laughs.

“Oh darling, you really are something to behold when I’ve just drained you.” His hand, delicate in appearance and yet firmer than you’d imagine if you knew him less, plays with the collar of your night shirt. “Don’t mistake me though, I am still quite heartless.”

You want to say something back, something snarky and witty and bold enough to wipe the self-satisfied smile off of his face, but nothing comes to you. You’re absolutely reeling with the aftermath of accidentally confessing, and then giving him your blood, and then doing whatever the hells _this_ is now...

“Why would you tell me that?” you manage, an eternity later. Astarion has already succeeded in half-undressing you at this point - you are after all, quite cooperative. “I mean, not that I ever thought you would even consider… but _why_ -”

His finger silences your lips, something steady behind his eyes. “Don’t spoil the moment with your chatter,” he says. “Don’t make me take it all back. Otherwise the sex we’re about to have is going to seem rather unpleasant.”

Your eyebrows raise of their own accord well up your forehead. “Oh, is that what we’re doing now?”

Astarion moans an affirmative against your now bare shoulder, looking up at you through surprisingly dark lashes. “Unless you object?”

Still somewhat in shock, you shake your head. You certainly aren’t going to turn him down, not when he’s seemingly being so… genuine.  
His hands brush ever so close to the center of your arousal, but they don’t reach yet. He must want you to squirm. 

“You’ve done your part tonight, it’s only fitting that I show my gratitude for it.” 

You hum in agreement, shifting your position in his lap to something more intimate, more accessible.

His lips come back up, finding yours and pleading with them to part until you are compliant to his wishes and taste your own blood in his mouth. Your hips rut slowly against his thighs, and instinctively his fingers get to work. There isn’t enough room for this in the armchair, there isn’t enough space to get purchase. Astarion seems to figure this out only a moment after you do, and soon enough he’s reaching under you and securing your legs around his waist, the both of you fumbling blindly in the darkness to reach one of the beds. He must kick the wine bottle, for you hear glass rattling against the floor again a few moments before your back hits a mattress and the air is knocked from your lungs. Astarion gives you no time to catch your breath, however, and continues to kiss your lips and play with your thighs still wrapped around him. For all his talk of being heartless, Astarion is a rather thoughtful lover. Perhaps it’s just pulling from a wealth of experience for him, but each splay of his hands on your body, each press of himself against you - it’s all timed so exquisitely that really, how could you _not_ have gotten feelings for him? How could you not want and crave exactly this? Perhaps what you have is merely infatuation, merely lust. You don’t think he’d care, really. You don’t even care yourself. 

Astarion undoes his trousers with practiced ease, freeing himself and lazily stroking his member a few times to get ready. There's a bottle of oil in a small pouch of your pack still at the foot of your bed, and knowing this, Astarion reaches gracefully back to retrieve it, using it to prepare himself for you. With an air of restrained wickedness, he looks to you for approval before entering, slowly and deliberately at first, every move intentional. He isn’t going to hurt you unless asked, and you aren’t particularly in the mood for that on top of everything else tonight. This is a slow, gentle thing, one that makes you gasp as he bottoms out, his hips pressing even further. His fingers, held low, tease you wickedly, friction working in perfect tandem with how he pulls himself in and out, in and out. 

You get lost in him, or rather the sensation of him in you - the night cold and quiet and calm aside from your increasingly frequent gasps, your intakes of air no longer from fear and smothered into a pillow, but no less desperate. 

“Come, dearest,” he whispers just under your ear. “Now isn’t the time to hold out, you know.”

You’re close, you truly are, but you’re not quite there yet. 

“Make me,” you say instead, your breath hitching. 

“Naughty you,” he grins. You expect him to pick up his pace, to ram himself into you recklessly and harshly, holding you down and taking what he wants.

Instead, he slows, altering his motions. No longer a back and forth, he rolls his hips, guiding himself, searching for something hidden within you. Some spot, some perfect, elusive - 

“ _There_ ,” you pant, your hand wrapping tightly around his wrist of its own accord. “Astarion, right there.”

“As you wish,” he drawls, managing to sound bored of all things. You’d slap him if it didn’t all feel so damned good, if every movement of his was not like some sort of magic coursing within you, some sort of wicked spell engulfing your body in pleasure and power and -

“That’s it,” he breathes, his own voice cutting off as you tighten around him, riding out your euphoric peak with a silent cry. 

His mouth is on yours again, moaning and gnashing his teeth to you. You reach around, a hand on his back pushing him closer to you, the skin of your palm hot against the ridges of scars lying there. 

You feel a sudden, unplaceable hatred at Cazador, one far stronger than you have any right to harbor for a man you’ve never met.  
He’d touched Astarion, _hurt_ him, and all too quickly that seems a terribly grave offense. The tadpole, apparently in agreement, wriggles behind your eye. A vision of carnage, of victory ensues, not dissimilar to ones you’ve been promised in far off dreams. If Astarion sees it too, you cannot say, for he is distant now, lost in his own pleasure, panting above you as his pelvis slows its jerking movements, as his arms bent beside your shoulders tense and relax. 

You kiss him, this time, as he lowers himself on top of you, turning you both gradually to the side amidst all the sheets and displaced pillows. It’s almost careless, this kiss, as intentional as you aim for it to be. You’re simply too tired at this point to do much of anything with any skill except fall asleep.

And sleep you shall. Astarion soon positions himself behind you, the both of you close together on the narrow bed, but with enough space for him to run his hand lazily along your side, trailing from your ribs down past the curve of your waist and settling on the flare of your hip, tracing little circles in the flesh there. Writing his own poem, perhaps, though in what language or form, you cannot rightly say. You allow your mind to wander, in these hours before dawn. You aren’t so naïve as to imagine a life together with Astarion - his feelings certainly don’t run that deep, and you aren’t even sure that your own do. But you do allow yourself to return to that premonition of victory, of Astarion triumphantly bathed in the blood of his enemy, smiling at you with his ruby eyes glinting in the sunlight and his fangs on full display.

It’s a rather nice image, despite it all, one which you will to come swiftly and surely.

Behind you, Astarion pulls you a little closer as if he too is reaching for that vision, as if you yourself hold the key to its manifestation.  
It will come to be - it _has_ to. You’ll ensure it.

Or at the very least, you’ll die trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this fic! The number of reads the previous chapter got in a week is crazy - so thank you returning readers!
> 
> Would you be interested in more Astarion fics from me in the future? If so, what kind? Like I said, he's quite fun to write and I'd love to get better at his characterization. He's very good at slithering out of direct answers, and while this makes him difficult, it is a fun challenge for me!
> 
> (and if this is the first work you've read from me and want more vampire content, I do have a Castlevania fic that's updated weekly ;) )


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